SHOSTAKOVICH Symph No 13 in B flat minor op 113 (BABY YAR) Dir Valery Gergiev Orq Mariinsky Theatre

VALERY GERGIEV - MUSICAL DIRECTOR AND CONDUCTOR THE MARIINSKY ORCHESTRA AND CHORUS 8° de Enero del 2013 - January 8th, 2013 Throughout his career, Shostakovich used Jewish themes in his music, but his boldest statement of solidarity with Jewish causes was the Symphony No. 13, “Babi Yar.” Some historic context: In 1941, Nazis and their sympathizers murdered nearly 34,000 Jews in two days at Babi Yar, a ravine near Kiev. For years, Soviet authorities suppressed any acknowledgement of the atrocity, did not erect a monument, and even went so far as to arrest Jews who prayed at the site. Dissident poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko’s 1961 poem “Babi Yar” reflects on the massacre and is a searing condemnation of anti-Semitism and the Soviet system that condoned it. Shostakovich was mesmerized by the poem and planned to set it as a cantata, but eventually added other Yevtushenko poems to create a five-movement symphony for bass-baritone, male chorus, and large orchestra with an expanded percussion section. BABI YAR By Yevgeni Yevtushenko Translated by Benjamin Okopnik, 10/96 No monument stands over Babi Yar. A steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone. I am afraid. Today, I am as old As the entire Jewish race itself. I see myself an ancient Israelite. I wander o’er the roads of ancient Egypt And here, upon the cross, I perish, tortured And even now, I bear the marks of nails. It seems to me that Dreyfus is myself. *1* The Philistines betrayed me – and now judge. I’m in a cage. Surrounded and trapped, I’m persecuted, spat on, slandered, and The dainty dollies in their Brussels frills Squeal, as they stab umbrellas at my face. I see myself a boy in Belostok *2* Blood spills, and runs upon the floors, The chiefs of bar and pub rage unimpeded And reek of vodka and of onion, half and half. I’m thrown back by a boot, I have no strength left, In vain I beg the rabble of pogrom, To jeers of “Kill the Jews, and save our Russia!” My mother’s being beaten by a clerk. O, Russia of my heart, I know that you Are international, by inner nature. But often those whose hands are steeped in filth Abused your purest name, in name of hatred. I know the kindness of my native land. How vile, that without the slightest quiver The antisemites have proclaimed themselves The “Union of the Russian People!” It seems to me that I am Anna Frank, Transparent, as the thinnest branch in April, And I’m in love, and have no need of phrases, But only that we gaze into each other’s eyes. How little one can see, or even sense! Leaves are forbidden, so is sky, But much is still allowed – very gently In darkened rooms each other to embrace. -“They come!” -“No, fear not – those are sounds Of spring itself. She’s coming soon. Quickly, your lips!” -“They break the door!” -“No, river ice is breaking…” Wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar, The trees look sternly, as if passing judgement. Here, silently, all screams, and, hat in hand, I feel my hair changing shade to gray. And I myself, like one long soundless scream Above the thousands of thousands interred, I’m every old man executed here, As I am every child murdered here. No fiber of my body will forget this. May “Internationale” thunder and ring *3* When, for all time, is buried and forgotten The last of antisemites on this earth. There is no Jewish blood that’s blood of mine, But, hated with a passion that’s corrosive Am I by antisemites like a Jew. And that is why I call myself a Russian!